A Hero is Made
by tabatook
Summary: Ivar Frost-Hand was tasked with saving all of Skyrim. He vanquished Miraak. He killed Harkon. And he finally defeated Alduin. But he never anticipated recieving a chestwound at the claws of Alduin. He tasks Edara Aminax with ending the Civil War; the only problem is she's a Healer, not a Warrior.
1. A Hero is Made

I hated the waiting.

Ivar _always_ made me wait.

Now I was atop the Throat of the World, at the Time-Wound, dragons circling about, eagerly

awaiting his return.

"Do not fret, little bird, I feel Alduin's strength waning. The Dovahkiin shall return."

Paarthurnax's voice was soothing as it carried to my ears.

I looked up at him, his wings flapping in the air. "But what if he doesn't come back? What if it's some sort of trick, or some godsforsaken Daedra intervenes?"

Paarthurnax laughed. "The Daedra have no love of Alduin, and would not dare trespass in Shor's plane. Trust me, Edara, as you trust your friend. I feel it in my very soul: Alduin is at his end."

I let out a shaky breath. "Of course, Paarthurnax. I'm just worried is all." I crossed my arms, tapping my foot.

"And with good reason," Paarthurnax landed atop the Word Wall. "My brother is no easy foe to defeat. But Alduin is ended: look!"

In an instant Ivar was transported back to the Throat of the World. He lay at the bottom of the Word Wall Paarthurnax was perched upon. But something was wrong: his chest was ripped open, a sort of glow emancipating from it.

"Ivar?" I yelled. I ran to him, kneeling by his side. Blood seeped from the wound, and he reached his hand up, wanting to clasp it with my own. He gave me a shaky smile, then coughed, and drew his face up into a frown.

"What happened? Did Alduin do this?" I asked, eyes searching his face as his dragon blood seeped into the white snow.

Ivar nodded, faintly. "We shouted him down...me and the others..."

I drew my brows together, confused. "What others?"

"...Hakon One-Eye...Gormlaith Golden-Hilt...Felldir the Old... it was a mighty battle, I wish you could have seen it." He coughed again.

"Is your chest the only wound?" I began searching for any other ailment.

"Afraid so. The wyrm clawed me... as I ran my sword... through him." Ivar was taking many short breaths between his words. He grew paler by the second. "A final gift... he said. Damn him to... Oblivion!" Ivar gasped with pain.

I placed my hands on his chest. "This might sting a bit. But you know how it works."

A faint glow came from my figertips, healing Ivar. The golden light danced around my hands and flew towards his chest, stitching back skin and mending broken bones.

Ivar sighed. "Thank you, Edara. Kynareth has blessed you with such magic." Ivar gave me a smile. Not one of his joking smiles, but a real one.

Paarthurnax began to speak. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Dovahkiin. You have vanquished Alduin, World Eater, First-born of Akatosh. All of _Keizaal_, all of _Vus _is in your debt. But I fear Alduin has cursed you with his claw. I fear you may never again see battle. There is no magic here amongst men or elves that can heal that wound. Only the Divines can."

I helped Ivar to sit up. "What do you mean?"

Ivar interjected:"She just healed me! The blood is gone, the wound reduced to a scar like all of the others." Ivar's voice was filled with worry and anger.

"Just because it is healed on the surface," Paarthurnax said, "does not mean it has healed the soul. She healed your body, _geh_. But it is not among her mortal power to heal the effects it has on your Z_ii_, your soul."

Ivar lifted his sword that lay beside him. He pointed it towards Paarthurnax. "I killed Alduin, Bane of Kings. Tell me what I can do—_now_—or I shall kill you too." Ivar swung his sword, and as he did so he doubled over in pain, clawing at his chest, gasping for air.

Paarthurnax gave out a sigh. "You have the soul of a warrior Dovahkiin, and so Alduin has cursed you with the _Kendov Sil Dur_. An ancient curse unknown to man or mer, unknown to even the Daedra. A gift solely bestowed upon Alduin by _Bormahu_, Akatosh, in the days of yore. Only he can heal you. But Akatosh's power was drained after Oblivion opened. I fear what this may mean."

"So he can never heal? Never lift up his sword in battle? In self-defense?" I rose from Ivar's side, my brown hair moving slightly in the wind.

"Not fully, _nid_. I doubt he could even use magic in his defense. His Thu'um... I do not know if he could Shout ever again. _Krosis_!" Paarthurnax let out a Shout to the Skies, then bowed his head in sorrow.

"No... after all this time... Akatosh would not abandon me. He gave me this gift, why would he take it away?" Ivar looked up, tears streaming down his face, his blue warpaint dripping into his red beard. At that moment, a new voice appeared.

"Because, Dragonborn, you have not followed the Way of the Voice."

Master Arngeir appeared, followed by Masted Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar.

Ivar looked at Arngeir, and rose to his feet. "Not followed the Way of the Voice? I fulfilled my destiny and aided all of Skyrim in their struggles. Solved _every_ problem. I did as I was supposed to do." Ivar began storming towards Arngeir.

"You may have defeated Alduin, and numerous other villains, but Akatosh does not take kindly to his chosen one serving the Daedra, and stealing from the innocent." Ivar looked down at the snow covered ground, abashed. "Oh yes, Dragonborn, your exploits as Master of the Theives Guild has reached even our ears, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World. And the Daedra? Hircine, Molag Bal, Sheogorath, Mehrunes Dagon... where does it end? Your quest for power has darkened your soul, honorable as it once was. But I did not come hear to lecture you. No, we," Arngeir paused to motion to his fellow Greybeards, " came to offer you a chance at redemption. A chance to follow the teachings of Jergen Windcaller, and perhaps regain the favor of Akatosh. This may be the only way, Dragonborn."

Ivar looked conflicted. He knew that living with the Greybeards meant he would be disconnected from all of Skyrim, from his friends _and_ from his foes. But it also meant he could be rid from Alduin's curse. A chance to be cured.

"Ivar," I went over to my friend. "You have saved Skyrim so many times. Now it is time for you to be saved." I placed my hand on his shoulder and clasped it. "You can do this."

Ivar straightened his shoulders and nodded his head. "This I will do. But I must set some things in order first."As Ivar turned to face me I removed my hand from his shoulder.

"You have gone with me on every quest, from Markarth to Riften, from Whiterun to Winterhold, from Skyrim to Solstheim. I almost had you executed at Helgen, and still you would have followed me to Sovengarde. You managed to follow me even to Apocrypha. You have healed me after every ordeal, every trial. You have stopped me from becoming an Assassin, and you have tried to keep me on a path of honor these many months. But there is still one trial we have yet to deal with: Skyrim's sons still fight amongst each other, spilling their own blood. I entrust you with putting a stop to it. You know where my heart lies on the matter. Go to Windhelm, save Skyrim. It is up to you now, Edara." Ivar placed both hands upon my shoulders, shaking me gently. He then reached into his scabbard and pulled out his sword, made from dragon bone, and held it out for me to take.

I shook my head, sighing. "I am a Healer, Ivar. And an Alchemist. I do not take lives, I _save_ them, remember? I cannot do this. I am no warrior, I have no Voice, no Dragons to ride into battle or even allies to rally to my side. I'm sorry." I pushed his sword back into his hands. I felt awful, but what was I to do?

"Little bird," Paarthurnax spoke from his spot on the Word Wall, his voice a low rumble, commanding me to face him. "There is no choice in this matter. The Sons of Skyrim will continue to shed their own blood unless," Paarthurnax leveled his head with my own, "unless a hero is made. Not all heroes are born, little bird. _Nid_— heroes, oftentimes, are forged in the heat of battle against the most terrible foes. Your foe is yourself. The Dovahkiin has told me of your _Mid_, your loyalty, and of how you would heal him during the midst of battle, despite the threat of _Dinok_. You are fearless, little bird, and you are good. But perhaps you do not have to kill Skyrim's Sons to put an end to _Evgir Unslaad_. Perhaps all you must do is heal the rift. The enemy of _Keizaal_ is not the _Junaar_, it is the _Fahliil _of Summerset Isle, _geh_?"

I looked intently at the old dragon. He had seen many ages and had travelled the passages of time. It would be wise to heed his words."So you want me to unite _Keizaal_? But how? The Empire would never go against the Thalmor for fear of another Great War. And Ulfric Stormcloak would never ally himself or his troops with the Imperial Legion. He wants to be High King. He feels it is his destiny."

"That is not for me to know, little bird. It is for you to find out. The fate of Skyrim is in your hands now." Paarthurnax let out another shout to the Skies and flew away, the wind whipping in his wake.

I turned to face Ivar. "Is this what you want? Truly?" The snow fell lightly from the sky, catching in his red beard, making his green eyes shine with emotions.

He sighed. "Skyrim deserves to be free. And I believe Ulfric's motives are not solely based on power. I think the Empire, too, desires to be free from the Aldmeri Dominion. Perhaps they can put aside their differences once more and work towards a common goal, and from there find a way to solve their issues. This I think, can be done. And who better than you to do it? There is none more level headed than you. And no one more good. You can thaw the heart of the Legion on this matter, and stop Ulfric's fiery passion from turning into a blaze. Please, take my sword. Even if you will not use it Edara, it will be a mighty weapon to intimidate foes into submission." Ivar waggled his bushy red eyebrows at me, forcing me to smile.

"I'll try." I took his sword from his outstretched hands. "You know Ivar, in all of our travels we have never been to Windhelm. At least, I haven't. You went to retrieve Ulfric for the peace meeting and ordered me to stay in Whiterun. Any tips?"

Ivar pondered for a moment, running his large gloved hands through his fiery beard. "There's some murderer there. I couldn't put a stop to it while I was in town, not without you being there. You are the wits to our operations, afterall. So do _not_, whatever you do, walk alone at night. If I lost you I don't know what I would do. The Shatter-Shields have some...relations with me. If you need anything, go to them. Now... off to Windhelm with ye, lass. Take my horse, Aggie, she's down in Ivarstead. She'll get you there safe." Ivar slapped me hard on the back. I stumbled, and sent him a glare.

"Keep out of trouble, blockhead, you're easy to kill now, remember?" I yelled, not stopping to see the glare Ivar was shooting in my direction. And thus began my descent down the Throat of the World.


	2. The Inn

Aggie neighed as we approached Windhelm Stables. The snow was coming down heavily and although the horses of Skyrim were a sturdy lot, I knew she was tired and cold. We had been riding hard since our departure from Ivarstead: I meant to get down to business with the Stormcloaks as soon as I set foot in the city. But now as I hopped off of Aggie's saddle and paid the Altmer horse master, I did not know what to do. How did Ivar manage it?

Ivar always had this certain knack for getting things done. Even if he did it horribly or almost got himself killed in the process. I had met Ivar whilst traveling in High Rock some years ago. After deciding High Rock wasn't as amazing as we thought, we began our journey back to Skyrim only to have our horses stolen by a thief in the Jerall Mountains. We tracked him for two days and two nights, until all three of us— me, Ivar, and the thief, Lokir— accidentally stumbled upon an Imperial ambush. That's when we were sent to the headsmen's axe in Helgen. That's where it all began.

I didn't have the guts to tell Ivar the real reason I didn't want to involve myself in the Civil War. It was too ridiculous to say aloud, even to my best friend. The issue was not political, it was more social than anything. The fact of the matter was that while we were in that ambush one of the Imperial soldiers smashed me atop the head with the hilt of their sword. Me, being rendered unconscious by the ordeal, woke up in a cart having spent the entire ride sleeping—if not drooling— on the bound and gagged Jarl of Windhelm. Suffice to say I was mortified and Ivar spent the entire rest of the journey laughing to himself. I moved away from the esteemed Jarl and pretended I didn't exist. If I were Paarthurnax, that would have been the time to say "_Krosis!_"

Social mortifications aside, I didn't know how to go about bringing the war to an end. I was good at planning but not good at acting. That was Ivar's responsibility. He had me act as bait for Draugr once in Folgunthur and I ended up tripping over a crack in the ground, dousing myself in oil. That oil was then lit by a Shouting Ivar.

I wasn't allowed inside Burial Crypts after that. It's a good thing I'm damn good with Wards and Restoration magic otherwise I wouldn't look this good. I chuckled to myself as I approached the mighty doors that led into the city. There were two guards stationed there at either side. The guard on the left approached me.

"Welcome to Windhelm. Before you go into the city I will need your name. Who are you?" The guard asked, retrieving a piece of parchment from his satchel.

"Edara Sun-Strider. Why does it matter, everything alright?" I inquired, placing both hands on my hips.

The guard sighed as he received an inked quill from the guard on his right. "There's a... criminal about. Keeps going after pretty young lasses like yourself. We need your name just in case anything happens. Identification and all that. But so long as you don't go outside after 10:00 at night, at least unaccompanied, you should be safe." The guard finished writing my name on the parchment. The other guard came over to me.

"You say your name is Edara Sun-Strider? You wouldn't happen to have any relation to the Dragonborn, would you? There are those in the city who say he has defeated the great dragon Alduin, and that a woman with brown hair and eyes of blue often accompanied him on his travels. Tell me, where is he?"

It wasn't like I could tell him Alduin cursed him. Or that he was drained of all power. Or that he was staying at High Hrothgar. Ivar had made many enemies and revealing his location could result in his death. So I did what any good friend would do. I lied.

"Alduin has been slain, yes. They battled on the very fields in front of Shor's mighty hall, in Sovengarde. But as Ivar Frost-Hand ran the World Eater through with this very weapon," I drew Ivar's sword from the scabbard at my hip, "Alduin, Bane of Kings, mighty claws outstretched, tore open his chest. The Dragonborn is no more: he is not here. He revels in the mead hall of Shor; he dines with Ysgramor."

Both guards bowed their heads in respect to the deceased. "By Talos' very bones he was a great man. The first into battle, the first to raise a mug in one's honor; filled with courage, valor, and truth. Or so they say. All of Skyrim mourns this loss. He was a true Nord, and there is none more worthy to walk amongst Shor's hall."

I bowed my head with them, pretending that he was not alive. The guard who asked my name turned towards the heavy doors and opened the one closest to him. With one hand holding the door, he reached into his coin purse with his other hand and handed me one hundred Septims.

"Room and Board for ten days at Candlehearth Hall. It is the least I can do. For the rumors say that you aided him in his battles, and healed him many times. Without you, Alduin could never have been defeated in the first place. You have my gratitude as well, Edara Sun-Strider." I took the money from his weathered hand and placed it into my own coin purse. I thanked him and gingerly stepped over the threshold of the city.

At a glance, Windhelm seemed massive. Made of stone and covered in snow, it was as if someone had taken Markarth, replaced all of the dwarven elements with wood or hay, and placed it here. There were braziers about, lighting the way through the city. In front of me was what I assumed was the inn, Candlehearth Hall. I approached the inn, only to realize there was a commotion to my right.

"Listen here, _elf. _We don't like your kind here. You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks." A Nord man with a cap and uneven mustache stood in front of a Dunmer woman, easily towering over her slim figure.

"It is not our fight, Rolff." The Dunmer woman sighed, putting her hand to her temple.

A man I hadn't seen before interjected on their conversation. Dressed in rags and a mace hanging at his hip, he accused her of being a spy.

"An Imperial Spy? You can't be serious!" The woman was exasperated, and a panicked look flashed on her blue face.

"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are." The man, Rolff stated, craning his head down to glare at her.

I briskly walked over. "You will do no such thing." I placed myself between him and the Dunmer woman.

"Oh yeah?" Rolff crossed his arms over his chest, leering down at me. The man on his left placed one hand on his mace.

"You really think the Dunmer are spies? You hate them that much?"

Rolff's mustache twitched. "They're parasites!" He spat. "They live in _our _city, under_ our _protection, and they do nothing for us!"

"Last I checked," I scowled, "there is no sign here that says "Nord Only". If they do nothing to you I don't see the problem. And there are plenty of Nords who don't fight for the Stormcloaks either. _So lay off."_

Rolff uncrossed his arms and balled his fists. "Perhaps it's not the elf who needs to be taught a lesson. Perhaps it's you." Rolff let out a noise that sounded like a growl.

Within an instant Rolff had knocked me on the ground, blood beginning to drip from my temple. From my place on the ground I glared up at him. "Is that all you've got you bastard?"

Rolff drew back his leg to kick me. He aimed for my gut. He kicked me once. Then he kicked me twice. He proceeded to spit at me, and told me to stay down where I belonged. As he turned to walk away I staggered to my feet.

"The little one's got some nerve." Rolff growled through gritted teeth, cracking his knuckles. He drew back his right arm to deal another blow but as he flung his fist at me I caught it, twisted his arm behind his back, took him by his cap and slammed his head into the brazier nearby. I let go of his cap and allowed him to fall ungracefully to the floor. I stooped down by his side, checking for a pulse. He was simply unconscious and left with a nasty burn mark on his temple.

"Thank Talos." I muttered under my breath, drawing my face up in pain as my head spun. My stomach was surely bruised.

The Dunmer woman came to my side. "Are you alright?" She placed her hands on both sides of my head, inspecting the wound.

"I will be. He got me good." I frowned placing my hand to my temple, drawing blood. "Would you mind getting me a potion from my satchel? The little red bottle."

The Dunmer unclasped my satchel and fumbled around for the potion. "Here." I took it from her hands, untwisting the cork. I guzzled down the liquid, sighing at the taste. For me, it tasted like a sweet roll. That was one way an alchemist could tell potion form poison. The good ones generally tasted like what you loved. The bad ones tasted foul either way.

I placed my hand to my temple, feeling for any blood. My stomach felt fine, not a sign of bruising. Being an Alchemist sure did come in handy. The Dunmer interrupted my thoughts.

"My name is Suvaris Atheron. Thank you for what you did back there. Not many Nords would do what you did. You have my deepest gratitude."

I looked at Suvaris and smiled. "My name is Edara. Edara Sun-Strider." I stuck my hand out for her to shake it.

Suvaris shook my hand, returning my smile. "You must be new to Windhelm. I'd offer to show you around but my kind isn't exactly welcome in most parts of the city. We stick to the Grey Quarter."

I drew my brows in confusion. "Why not? You aren't harming anyone, are you?"

Suvaris sighed. "No, we aren't. The Nords don't like outlanders. Especially Elvish outlanders. It could be worse though, I could be an Argonian."

"What's wrong with the Argonians?"

Suvaris looked at me with something that resembled pity. "They're confined to the docks. They aren't allowed in the city at all. They are unwanted. I must tell you: It's been a long time since I've met any Nord in the city who questioned the practices of Windhelm. I should warn you though...such innocence will only reward you with more brawls with brutes like Rolff Stone-fist. It would be wise to stick with the Nords, Edara Sun-Strider." Suvaris turned to walk away. I caught her by the shoulder.

"Suvaris—"

Suvaris Arethon brushed me off, walking in the direction of what I could only assume was the Grey Quarter. I sighed, turning towards Candlehearth Hall and stepping over Rolff's unconscious body. He would be fine, his Nordic blood granted him a resistance to cold anyway.

I opened up the door to Candlehearth Hall. I was greeted by warmth and the faint glow of golden light.

"Welcome to Candlehearth Hall. Elda Early-Dawn at your service. If you're looking for a bed to rent just ask me. If it's the mead you're after try Susanna. She'll be upstairs. Just go up that staircase to your left and you'll find her."

I gave Elda a quick smile, walking up to her. "How about both?" Taking the hundred Septims the guard had given me from my coin purse, I asked Elda if I could rent a room for ten days.

"Of course! I'll show you to your room and then you can do whatever your heart desires, so long as you don't kill anyone, break anything or steal anything." Elda chuckled, motioning for me to follow her. She brought me down a hall and ushered me into a door on the left.

"Feel free to stow your belongings in any of the chests or closets here. They all have a lock on them, and you have the key! It will all be safe I assure you." Elda patted me on the back and walked out of the room. I placed my knapsack on the bed and closed the door. Rummaging through the knapsack I pulled out a change of clothes. My clothes were wet from the journey and I longed to take them off. Taking my satchel off and putting Ivar's sword on the bed, I peeled off my blue mages robes and swapped them for fur armor. The fur was warm and the sleeves went a little passed my wrists. The shawl warmed my neck. An amulet of Kynareth hung from my neck as my brown hair curled about my shoulders, framing my face.

"By Kyne that feels better." I whispered. After I grabbed my satchel and reattached Ivar's sword to my hip, I took the room key off the bed and placed it into my pocket. I walked towards the door, opened it and proceeded to go up the stairs.

The upstairs was warm and inviting. There were chairs about many tables and guests fluttered about the room. A large hearth was in the center of the of t all and a Dunmer sung in the corner. I sat in an empty chair near the bard. I motioned to who I thought was Susanna.

"Excuse me, are you Susanna?" I asked. The blonde woman approached me, her blue eyes scanning the room to see if any other patrons needed attention.

"The one and only. Tell me, what do you need?" Savanna put one hand on her hip, waiting for me to answer.

"Give me your strongest mead." I figured if I was to stay here, I might as well enjoy myself for one night.

"Not a problem." Savanna chuckled, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "It will only take a moment." Savanna hurried towards the bar, coming back with a bottle of cold Nord mead.

"Thank you." I uncorked the bottle and had one long swig. "Tastes wonderful." I gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Savanna smiled in return. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get home. My shift just ended. Enjoy your mead." Savanna walked away once more, only this time she didn't come back.

Some hours had passed. The fire was getting low and most of the guests had gone to sleep. I sat watching the fire in the hearth. I had risen to go to bed on numerous occasions but had simply ended up wandering about the hall each time. For some reason I couldn't sleep. Suddenly a noise sounded from downstairs.

"It's Susanna! The Butcher... he got her! Please somebody help!"

I ran down the steps of Candlehearth Hall, greeting the man in the rags once more.

"Where?" I looked at the man, demanding an answer.

"She's at the cemetery. Please, this way."

The man in rags ran out of Candlehearth Hall. I followed him, trying not to slip on the ice. The man dashed down a side street and down some more steps where I was greeted by the sight of a dimly lit, frozen graveyard. To the left of the steps, Susanna's naked body, riddled with holes, was strewn over a grave. Her heart, it seemed, was cut out.

"By the gods." I said and turned away in horror.


	3. Butcher

The man in rags next to me put a hand over his mouth. The body was still fresh, but the sheer barbarism associated with Susanna's death was overwhelming. There were three citizen's crowded around the body alongside us.

"What kind of person would do this?" I crouched down, trying to get a good look at the body. Perhaps there would be something worth noting — anything, really — that would help identify a potential perpetrator.

"It's the Butcher, for sure! Only he could do something like that. And he's struck before!"

"How do you know it's a man? Perhaps the Butcher is a woman." I looked up at the tattered man, narrowing my eyes. I couldn't be too careful: if this man was really the Butcher, and was somehow tricking me, I best be on my guard. I rose from my spot on the ground, crossing my arms.

"Well it has to be! Right? What kind of woman could do such a thing?"

"Any type of person could commit a crime. Haven't you ever heard of the Daedric Prince Namira? They're generally depicted as a woman. Or how about Boethiah, or Mephala? Gods you're a daft one." I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a frustrated sigh. By now there were guards surrounding us: I turned to face one on my near right.

"You there! I have some questions, if that's alright."

The guard put a steady hand on the hilt of his sword.

"What can I do for you citizen?"

"I'd like to know a little more about these murders..."

The guard looked down, letting out a sigh.

"The war's stretched a lot of the guard thin so there isn't much to know. Life goes on, but eventually the killer will be found, mark my words."

"...Eventually? There's a murderer in your city, and you don't do a damned thing about it? Shor's bones!" I yelled. How could guards stand by and let these girls die? Were they going to let it pass and wait for all the women of Windhelm to be slaughtered in the night?

"Look, I'd appreciate your help. You seem like you've got a decent head on your shoulders. Besides, the Jarl would be pleased to know his city will be safe. I suggest you talk to his steward, Jorleif, at the Palace of the Kings. He can tell you more. Good day, miss." The guard inclined his head to me and walked up the stairs to my right, hand still on the hilt of his sword.

I sighed — again. Clearly Windhelm was going to be more trouble than I bargained for.

I looked around. The three people who were gathered around the body when I first arrived with the ragged man were still there. It would be best to talk to them.

I approached the haggard beggar woman first. She looked cold; if she stood outside any longer she's freeze to death.

"Excuse me, miss...?"

The woman looked at me, startled. "Silda. Silda the Unseen. I got here as quick as I could, you know. But by the time I got here she was dead. Dead and gone. Poor girl...". Silda put her arms around herself, and shivered.

"Here. For your help. Use it to get warm, okay?" From my belt I untied a tiny satchel filled with some gold. I handed her the package, a small smile gracing my lips.

"Oh! Thank you, bless your kind heart."

I inclined my head, and turned to face the well dressed man.

"Did you happen to see anything?"

"I saw a fellow running away...couldn't get a good look at him."

"So it was a man?" I stepped closer to him.

"Had to have been. He was tall. Too large to be a woman — it was dark though. Couldn't have seen much, you know how it is."

I furrowed my brows. There were torches along the wall. If this man had seen anything, it would have had to have been along a corridor, and he probably would have seen something.

"What was your name again?"

The man smiled, smoothing his outerclothes: "Calixto Corrium, at your service. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a business to run. I need my beauty sleep for work in the morning. Perhaps if you'll come by the shop, I'll have my thoughts sorted out... I could be of use to you then." With a curt nod, Calixto Corrium left in what I assume was the direction of his shop.

I turned to the last person there, the priestess of Arkay.

"Did you happen to see anything? Anything at all?"

The old woman looked at me with sad and tired eyes.

"No, sorry. But I did notice that her coinpurse was still intact, so whoever did this wasn't in it for the gold. I'm going to prepare the body now. If you'll excuse me."

The man in rags remained next to me, clearly uncomfortable.

"Well?" I said.

"It's a shame, to be sure..."

I narrowed my eyes. "You never told me your name."

"Well, you never asked. It's Agrenor. Agrenor Once-Honored. I want to apologize for what Rolff did to you earlier. Perhaps he took it a bit too far."

"That man beat me. He kicked me while I was down. There is no honor in that," I spat. "If you want to be of use then scan the streets at night instead of brawling with the dark elves — they wish no ill-will toward you." I turned away from Agrenor, and began my trek towards the Palace of the Kings.

There was ice everywhere I looked. Or snow. If there was to be a blood trail, I would have seen it. That meant the killer didn't come from the Palace. Points for the Jarl, I suppose. At least he wasn't in the company of butchers.

The Palace of the Kings was huge. It was much large than Dragonsreach, or it gave the appearance of it. The stone walls seemed to surround me. It felt more like a prison than a palace. It was at that moment I wished I was home in High Rock, in Alcaire, or at least the wide plains surrounding Whiterun where Kyne's breath was abundant and the air was free. I pushed all of my weight on the heavy metal doors. It took all I had to open it — it had to have weighed just as much as me or more.

The Palace of Kings wasn't as dreary as the outside suggested. Light blue banners adorned the walls, and torches dotted the halls. An overhead chandelier hung over an extended dining table laid out with a great many foods. There were nobles littered about: No doubt many were Thanes or Stormcloack Generals or even simple merchants.

At the far end of the hall was a raised stone throne.

It was empty.

"Praise Talos!" I whispered. I knew I would have to interact with Ulfric Stormcloak eventually but if I could delay the meeting any longer, it would be a blessing.

There was a man with an interesting mustache at the right of the throne. He was clearly a Nord, but he was of a leaner build. He had a red hap on his head, and parchment in his hands.

I began approaching him swiftly when suddendly I heard a commotion to my left.

"Damn them Galmar! Damn those Elvish bastards! Tullius would hand over Skyrim on a silver platter to sate their appetite."

Ulfric Stormcloak came barging into the hall, walking backwards as to face the man he was arguing with. In close pursuit was a great bear of a man (who was convenienty dressed in bear-like armor).

"Jarl Ulfric, calm yourself! Skyrim will never belong to the Aldmeri Dominion: you know that and I know that! Besides, we promised never to talk politics in front of guests."

The man's eyes darted over to me, and he inclined his head in my direction. I was frozen in place: I was directly in front of the throne, a few paces away from the steward. My mouth was agape: I was attempting to talk to Jorlief, but the commotion had turned my head away. Ulfric whipped around. He too, seemed frozen. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"What brings you to Eastmarch? Last time we met I believe you were destined for the headsman's axe."

I blinked, hard. Then I too cleared my throat.

"I could say the same to you, Ulfric Stormcloak."

The man behind him let out a hearty laugh. Ulfric turned his head to glare at him. Then he walked towards me. He made a motion and I moved aside. Turning about, he sat and reclined on his throne.

"Only the foolish approach a Jarl without summoms."

I narrowed my eyes, all initial feelings of embarrassment gone.

"I was here to see your steward, Jorlief, about a matter you care little about."

Ulfric leaned closer to me. "And what matter is that."

"I'm here for the Butcher."

Ulfric let out a chuckle.

"Ah! and you're going to catch him? I doubt you'd have the aptitude and strength to catch a murderer, much less open the doors of this Palace!" Ulfric spread his arms wide, then placed his hand under his chin, clearly entertained.

My face turned a deep red. "I can get on very well, thanks." I turned to face Jorlief, who began briefing me on the murders and their trends.

I was listening well, trying to absorb as much information as I could from the steward. As time elapsed I couldn't help but hear Ulfric and his man laughing. I turned my head a degree to the left. Ulfric was motioning towards me, whispering to the man at his side. I put my hands on my hips, excused myself from Jorlief, and addressed the Jarl:

"Do you mind?"

Ulfric Stormcloack ignored me, and the man on his right let out another laugh. I sighed.

"Thank you for all of your help, Jorlief. I hope my efforts orove successful." With that, I took my leave from the Palace of the Kings.


End file.
